the face was more than body
it was an edge
moving from time
and smudged there between the reds
it stood inelegant and obtrusive
one cannot avoid a face
and there under its tempera
a human shrouded as turin
glaring back to front
incessant, insistent
this was no entombment
just flesh and blood with eyes
intermittently blinking
often, ever so, surges
revelations of soul
and a knowing under, neath
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